Scars

 

We were gathered on the church lawn looking at chalk-drawn, spaced-apart circles and hashing out last minute details for our first in-person worship service since March. I was in a deep discussion with a newly retired police officer about the police reform bill recently passed in our state of Colorado. I heard the sound of rocks hitting chain-link fence and immediately walked across the parking lot to tell my six and eight year old sons to stop throwing rocks at each other. My eight year old said “but mom, I want to get a scar!” I said “why would you want a scar?” He simply replied “they look cool.”

 

While I can assume that he was thinking more “Harry Potter lightning bolt” type scars, I thought about my own (less exciting) scars. My kids love when I tell the stories of my scars, especially the permanent bump on my lower lip. I tell them about the trip to K-Mart to get new shoelaces for my sister. I was only two years old and sitting in the front part of the shopping cart. I saw a beautiful pair of Smurf shoelaces. Surely, these were the ones she would want. I tried to tell my family but after repeated attempts I took matters into my own hands. I reached and reached and reached until … the next thing I knew I was going home with my two front teeth in a plastic baggie and a stitched lip.

 

I have changed a lot in the 37 years since I got that scar, but it is still here on my body. A constant connection to that little girl. A connection to that memory of my mother as a young mom, my big sister whom I adored and that feeling of being very cared for even in scary times. My scars are also reminders that I have been through hard things … that I can get through hard things.

 

I recently overheard a conversation between my two sons. The youngest said “my fish died and that was really hard and sad” my oldest then said “but I had surgery when I was a baby and that is harder.” I do not know why, but they were each trying to prove that they had endured something more difficult than the other. I can understand then the appeal of a scar, a way of proving that you went through something really hard. A sign for others and ourselves that we can get through difficult things.

 

I thought about all of this as I sat in the sweltering sun with my mask on, listening to the cantor and organist through the speakers on the church lawn. We did it; we were together. It was very different than how we worshipped before the pandemic, but as I looked up to the blue sky and watched a yellow butterfly glide down over the carefully spaced apart heads I felt so incredibly grateful. We were all together again. We were all getting through something difficult. We are resilient and some day we will look at the cloth face masks tucked away in the back of our closets and it will be our scar. Our sign to ourselves and to others that we can get through difficult times.